A Goblet Darkly
by Darcillian Snake
Summary: “Tom, what is this face I see? Did you truly trade your beauty and heart for power?” [short story, standalone][beta'd, final copy up]


**Author's Note: My back and neck hurt from writing this and then typing it up. I've been at it for more than a few hours now, and I have to say I am pleased with how it turned out. I would LOVE feedback, or any sort of review. It's lovely to know your work is being read and/or appreciated. **

**Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all Harry Potter-related content. I only own that spiffy golden goblet. **

**...Okay, I don't. But if I did I would be a happy camper.**

**A quick thank you to my impromptu BETA, Nicky. ily.**

**And now, on to the story!**

**-Darcillian Snake**

* * *

It was early morning when they brought her to him; the sun was barely raised in the sky and the birds were just starting to chirp. He had called for her much earlier, as soon as word reached him that she was in the dungeons, but they had just now delivered her. He made a mental note to scold them for their sluggishness, but that would have to wait. For now, his primary objective was to deal with the woman.

He turned his cold eyes upon her then, narrowing them a fraction. From his position on the raised platform, he could easily see her. Not that there was much left of her left anyway—her frame was gaunt and her robes, shabby and tattered though they were, seemed to swallow her whole. She was on her knees in front of the large granite steps, a small black dot in the endless room of gray, bowing. He knew it was out of fear and not respect—she had always feared him, after all—and that amused him.

"Stand, child. Show your face to me."  
Her muffled sob echoed in the chamber-room—so his terminology had struck a nerve after all—but she complied. He was stricken by how much and how little she had changed. He hadn't seen her in years, not in person, but he had seen photographs, whether they were stolen from a being close to her or clippings from newspaper articles or something else. Yes, he had kept tabs on her while she grew and matured. He had thought it smart to do so, and it turned out her was right.

Her body was no longer the childish thing it once had been. Even in her starved, rugged state he could make out the definition it held. Her face was still recognizable, even after all this time. Her eyes, really, were what he remembered, all big and naïve. They still held that glazed-over look of undying adoration and awe…and love. Oh, that was good. She was still looking at him, half hopeful and all curious, and he stood, directing her toward a large window.

He made his way down the mini-stairway and joined her. The weak early morning light was pouring in, but it wasn't enough to make much of a difference. He breathed in the pine scent, remembering vaguely what those trees looked like up-close. "The view is breathtaking, don't you think?" He said it as more of a statement than an inquiry, his voice cutting smoothly through the tension that was so thick even he could feel it.

She took it as the latter and answered him in a strained voice. "It is…"  
He nodded at her absently, ignoring the fact that her gaze was trained on, not the view, but him. He let his attention focus on the steam rising from the mountains, then glide back to her. "Are you thirsty?" Before she could response he produced a goblet with shimmering water in it. He held it out to her; she accepted it with shaking hands.  
"Thank you, Tom," She murmured, raising the glass to her cracked lips. She took a long, slow drink, her tired eyes never once leaving him. There was a pregnant silence before she whispered defeatedly, "Do you not wish to know how I have been these past twelve years?"

He took a few moments in answering her, watched her unsteady hand set the glass on the windowsill, watched her watch him. "Oh, child, I know how you have been." She looked entirely surprised—and pleased—and he smiled thinly at her. "You graduated Hogwarts in the top five percentile of your class. You went on to become an Unspeakable in the Ministry—a dedicatedly swell one, I hear. In fact, they are supposed to promote you soon. You have become quite the socialite—numerous acquaintances and contacts, but, alas, no true friends." He looked down at her, his mouth quirking down into a frown. "But far more tragic than that is…you have no boyfriends. Why don't you have any boyfriends, Ginevra?" He watched with hidden glee as her face contorted and her lower lip quivered.

"Oh, Tom…" She didn't wail, as he expected her to, but instead spoke in a voice that told him she was utterly without happiness or purpose. "Oh, Tom, my lovely Tom—" She broke off there, her words dissolving into heart-wrenching sobs. He known she would do _this_—he knew her better than anyone else, ever since she had given the biggest part of her heart away when she was eleven—and knew exactly how she would react to those words.

He had, however, miscalculated how exactly emotional her reaction would get, for in the blink of an eye she had sprung forward and wrapped her thin arms around him. He breathed in sharply, having been caught off guard, but quickly regained his composure; he rubbed one hand up and down her back, placed the other around her waist, and whispered comforting words he didn't mean. Soon she was breathing evenly again, if a little deeper than normal, she began to speak.

"Tom, it was because of you…it was always because of you. You made me love you a dozen years ago and I can't seem to stop!" She pulled away violently, eyes glinting, and turned to stare broodingly at the outside landscape. "What have you done to me?" She demanded.

_Nothing yet_, he thought dryly, but outwardly only shook his head, looking pensively at her form, shrouded against the window, and answered with a question. "Ginevra, did you think we could be together? Have you forgotten who I am?" His voice had a controlled iciness to it, something she would probably take as mere disbelief at her.

She responded immediately, giving him the impression that she had thought about those two questions for a very long time. "No, Tom. I haven't forgotten who you are—who you really are. Lord Voldemort is a powerful man with a side virtually no one knows…but I do. I know that you are still that boy that so many cease to remember. Tom Riddle, a compassionate fellow with love in his heart…that is who you are..." She looked at him pleadingly, her voice now containing a note of hysteria. "That boy is still in you, I know." Her hand, all bones and joints like his own, cupped his cheek delicately as she plunged on, tears once again spilling down. "Tom, what is this face I see? Did you truly trade your beauty and heart for power?"

He tilted his head, took her hand in his, and lightly kissed her knuckles. "Yes, Ginevra, I believe that's about right." Abruptly he dropped her hand and called for the guards. Two Death Eaters strolled in, looking slightly terrified of him. He waved at the dirty redhead, saying dismissively, "Take her back to her cell. And give her a proper meal." He added almost as an afterthought, "And a bath." He faced the window again, watching from his peripheral vision as they dragged her out of the room. She was screaming something that he thought sounded like "liar", but he wasn't sure.

Alone again, he smiled to himself. She'd had that look in her eyes, and he knew he had her heart. And with her heart came her body. He missed having that…he would keep her around for a while. Later, he could send her out and she would be a servant to only him. Her future purposes need not be out of free will, either…

Lord Voldemort drained the golden goblet and strode out of the room, a self-satisfied air hovering around him.

* * *

Several months later, a group of Death Eaters attacked the Ministry of Magic; Ginevra Weasley was found dead by Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt after the raid ended. It was never clear if she was acting upon her own accord or not.


End file.
